


RPFs and OTPs

by JoulesIsIronic



Series: "Halinski"s and Fanfiction Acronyms: a.k.a. the Teacher AU [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Crack, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Necessary Original Characters - Freeform, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 07:04:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoulesIsIronic/pseuds/JoulesIsIronic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which well-loved English teacher Stiles Stilinski inadvertently discovers the world of fanfiction and his place in it.</p><p>Companion piece/prequel to “What the Hell Is a Halinski?” Can be read as a standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	RPFs and OTPs

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This is a bit of a companion piece/crack-a-licious prequel of sorts to "What the Hell is a Halinski?" There may be more little snippets to come; really depends how busy I am with classes. I attempted to write this as a bit of a standalone so I hope it's easy to follow for anyone who hasn't read it's counterpart.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Stiles Stilinski frowns down at the document on his desk, wishing – not for the first time – that he possessed the power of pyrokinesis, because he’d really like to set this paper on fire right now, thank you very much. For the first time in a while, he’s questioning his life choices.

Stiles has always considered himself a fair teacher. A fun teacher, even. His three years teaching English at Beacon Hills High had clearly lulled him into a false sense of security. And, apparently, so had the various accolades his students had heaped upon him, proclaiming him “hip” and “super cool.” All lies and deceit, it seems.

With long, slender fingers, he runs a hand through his brown hair, heaving a sigh of frustration, and pointedly forcing his eyes to glance around the classroom and _not_ at his desk and, by extension, the piece of short fiction waiting there. His eyes lock with Viola Anderson – the author of the monstrosity before him – and he watches as she sifts through her folders with furrowed eyebrows and ever-increasing panic. Her gaze darts up to his and they converse soundlessly.

 _That paper in front of you_ , her face seems to ask, _is it…?_

 _It is_ , his expression replies gravely.

Then her eyes widen, terrified, and she squeaks, “Mr. Stilinski, can I talk to you? In private?”

In the two years since he took over as the faculty advisor for the BHHS Creative Writing Club, Stiles has never been so completely and totally at a loss for how to handle a situation. But then again, he’s never had his students writing glorified porn about him and another faculty member before, either.

Stiles nods, clutching the atrocity of a story in his fingers as he climbs to his feet to follow her out of the room. Although he’s twenty-five now, he’s still the same skinny mess of gangly limbs and spastic twitches that he was in high school; only now, he plays it up for the humor of it, earning a few smirks and chuckles from the students who watch him. The club isn’t particularly big, filled with only about half-a-dozen girls from varying grades, a senior football player, and a kid named River who he’s not sure actually identifies as any gender from the limited binary options. He knows he shouldn’t play favorites in class; but if he _did_ , his club-kids would definitely rank up there.

In the hall, Viola stares up at him in horror, all wide green eyes and freckles.

“The story I gave you,” she starts, pausing to gnaw on her bottom lip, “that was _Beastly Attraction_ not, um, _Beast of an Erection_ , right?”

Stiles clears his throat, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck and shifting his weight between his feet, trying to force himself to be less tense. “Um, no,” he says stiltedly, “It was definitely the, um, latter.”

“Oh God,” she says.

“Yeah,” he says.

And neither speak for a good, solid minute. A minute during which Stiles once again questions his life choices.

Viola stares down at her hot-pink converse and mumbles, “For what it’s worth, you were never supposed to read that. Ever.”

“Unsurprisingly, that doesn’t help at all,” Stiles informs her honestly, trying to mentally prepare himself for a role he’s never successfully filled in the past: that of a _disciplinarian_.

Instead, he finds himself blurting, “Me and Mr. Hale? Really? _Really_? Like, what’s up with that?”

That was the opposite of where he wanted to go with that conversation, but he can’t take the words back once they’re released to the world like that.

Viola’s face snaps up, cheeks flushed and ears pink. “But you belong together!” she cries, slapping a hand over her mouth immediately.

“What? No,” Stiles denies instantly, ignoring the way it twists in his gut. Because Stiles would be lying if he said he hadn’t considered the possibility once or twice in passing before locking the idea in a little box in the back of his brain, because there was no way in hell Derek Hale shared that sentiment. “We’re just friends!”

“But what about that time he held the door for you?” she demands.

“I was up to my eyeballs in books! Literally! There was a gigantic stack of library books obstructing my vision!”

“And when he chaperoned that field trip for your Lit class?” she continues, raising an eyebrow incredulously. “I was there, Mr. Stilinski. I saw the heart-eyes you were giving each other.”

“I was grateful for the company!” Stiles explains, a little too desperately.

Viola’s hands jump to her hips, and her stance reminds Stiles so much of Lydia – perfect, beautiful, terrifying Lydia – that he actually flinches.

“You cuddled the entire bus ride to Washington. Do you deny it?”

“I’m your teacher!” Stiles exclaims, almost hysterically. “You can’t talk to me like this!”

“And you went to dinner together! And he paid! And that poem you shared in class was totally about him and his, I quote, ‘perfect stubble’ and ‘rippling muscles.’”

“That wasn’t…” Stiles starts, frustrated, “I didn’t…. You… But… You’re my _student_ , you can’t just…”

“He stares at your butt when he thinks you’re not looking,” she supplies helpfully. He wonders when introverted little Viola Anderson got so ballsy. Perhaps, he thinks with dread, this is her _domain_.

“No he doesn’t!” Stiles rebuffs. “He definitely doesn’t! He’s not even gay!”

“No,” Viola agrees, “He’s bi, like you.”

Stiles stares at her, mouth opening and closing, trying to form words. “How do you even _know_ that?” he asks, aghast (and impressed).

“Trust me, Mr. Stilinski. I’m an expert on the subject.” And she sounds so proud of this fact. He’s more or less concerned for her mental health. “Besides, do you honestly think I’m the only one who ships you?”

At this point, Stiles no longer feels capable of processing language. “Ships?” he repeats numbly.

“Yeah, you know, ‘ships.’ Like, ‘relationships.’ Look it up. You and Mr. Hale are my OTP. We call it Halinski. You know, like Mr. Hale and Mr. Stilinski. Get it?”

Stiles nods even though, no, he does not get it.

“It’s a whole fandom thing,” she says offhandedly, growing more and more confident with every word. “There’s a whole bunch of us online who share our RPFs in a forum on AO3.”

“You’re just making up acronyms now to confuse me, aren’t you?” Stiles mutters faintly, his head pounding in synchrony to his heart.

Viola laughs and there’s a knowing smirk on her face. “Just Google it, Mr. Stilinski. Better yet, Google Image it, without the safety filters. Anyway, that fic you ended up with was supposed to go to Miranda. _You_ were supposed to get _Beastly Attraction_. Sorry about the mix-up.”

“Right,” Stiles says, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it and focus on the matter of hand. “But… I mean, you have to stop writing this, um, ‘Halinski’ stuff. Is that what you called it? Halinski?” He rubs a now sweaty hand over his face, sighing. “Ugh, whatever. The point is, isn’t it weird to be writing, um, erotic stories about real people? Real people who are your teachers?”

Viola tilts her head, pigtails bobbing on either side of her face. “Not really.”

Stiles whines in a manly fashion, because, at this point, he just _can’t_ anymore. “Um, no, zero out of ten, you fail. The correct answer is, ‘Yes, Mr. Stilinski. It is, in fact, weird. Thank you for pointing this out to me. My friends and I will definitely stop impinging on your comfort and objectifying you.’ Capiche?”

The teenager definitely looks ready to argue, but she must see the desperation and pleading in his face, because, instead, she nods. “I understand, Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles sags in relief and wonders if maybe the gods really do actually tolerate his existence after all. He offers Viola a smile. “Fantastic. So you’ll stop, then?”

“Sure,” Viola tells him, with the voice of someone who is only humoring him. “Whatever you say, Mr. Stilinski.”

And the sad thing is, Stiles knows that’s the best he’s going to get, because this really isn’t something he can police. And if he brings it up to the principal, well, that sure as hell would be one awkward conversation. Plus, she might ask to read the work in question, which, no. Stiles isn’t sure _he’s_ evenold enough to read it. And he’d rather wait a few years to add any controversy to his reputation; after all, he’s still relatively new to BHHS and wants to stay off the firing-radar until he’s gained more seniority or even possibly tenure.

So he drops it. Because what else is he supposed to do?

“Right,” Stiles says, trying to keep the frown from his face. “Great talk.”

They return to the classroom. Stiles notices Viola practically skips to her seat and… Jesus, did she just wink at Emma? Yes, she just winked at Emma. Stiles officially hates everything. He half expects, with her newfound brazenness, that Viola will ask for her piece back, but she doesn’t, and when the club disbands for the day, she only offers him a smug smile before departing.

And Stiles is left alone, with only _Beast of an Erection_ as his company. He thinks about Derek: gorgeous, grumpy Derek and his brick-wall of a body. Viola had been scarily right about the poems he shared for Poetry Week. But she was completely wrong about everything else! There is no way Derek secretly pines for him. So, yes, maybe the man goes a little out of his way to help him out sometimes. And _maybe_ they text a bit more often than he does with most of his colleagues (a lot more, actually). And _maybe_ Stiles still jacks off the memory of waking up as Derek’s little spoon on the overnight field trip to Washington, when they’d roomed together for four magnificent nights. And _maybe_ ….

Stiles cuts himself off, because this line of thought will only lead to pain. There’s absolutely no way Calvin-Klein-model gorgeous Derek would want anything to do with perpetual nerd Stiles Stilinski.

Right?

Packing up his bag for the day (and shoving _Beast of an Erection_ to the very, very bottom), Stiles heads out, the decision already settled to, first, Google all this ‘Halinski’ nonsense, and second, to bring all this hullabaloo to Derek’s attention tomorrow. After all, he deserves to know just as much as Stiles.

And if Stiles uses this conversation to gauge Derek’s reaction to this information? Well, there’s nothing wrong with that.

**Author's Note:**

> I do have a tumblr, but I also have no idea how to embed a link. You can find me, if you so choose, at skimthepuddles.tumblr.com


End file.
